(Written across the time span of 12/10/17-2/5/18)
I was on
edge at church today,
The first
Sunday after finding out a man,
who used
to sit in these pews, was a long-term
child
molesting, Mennonite missionary,
who came
to this country, grooming young boys
for later
sexual exploits.
My eyes
kept shifting through the pews;
my
peripheral didn’t stop performing.
You know
they always say child molesters
don’t
always look like glassy eyed old men who give you
the
creeps; you can’t dismiss warnings
because
“She doesn’t look like a child abuser” or
“He
doesn’t look like…”
Monday’s
news of the foreign missionary’s
exploits,
was a sucker-punch because
“He always
looked like such a kind, gentle, reserved guy,”
says my
conscience. “How?!”
I couldn’t
feel at home in church today,
and I
didn’t feel safe at church today.
A row of
probably orphans sit behind us in the pews.
Three
white people are interspersed among them.
One is a
young teenage girl,
whose
behavior seems surprisingly strict,
whose
touch (although culturally appropriate)
seems too
familiar on the backs and arms of
the
children next to her.
My
potential accusations sound deplorable and offensive—
even to
me,
so, I’ll
let them rest there.
But I’m
sitting in my place of worship,
surrounded
by unfamiliar white faces
who
inevitably visit with a flock of young orphans.
And my
husband came home from work just last Monday
sharing
the despicable news with me.
I couldn’t
believe what I heard, the picture identifying the accused,
as my
husband relayed the story in a distraught and heartbroken tone.
What level
hurts the most? I’m trying to identify it.
Was it
that one of the children targeted was a five-year-old
pastor’s
son?
Was it
that there were over 20 young boys targeted—
forever
scarred, damaged irrevocably
in their
naivest hours, in their childhood innocence?
Is it that
this happens every day, in every city, in every
part of
the world?
Is it
because the accused “didn’t look evil”?
Is it that
the perpetrator was a do-gooder missionary—
financed
by well-meaning, oblivious Christians?
Is it that
he is Mennonite, and I have such high hopes
(both in
my lineage and experience) for this sect?
Is it
because he is a foreigner to this country,
an
American “god” who betrayed those who took him in?
Is it
because I am an American foreigner,
and I
can’t imagine how he felt the right to
cause such
destruction in a home that he was a guest in?
I am left
with the agitations of my
heart,
mind, soul,
and I feel
anger…disgust…fury.
I am
stirred up and unsettled.
And
something must be done.
To mar a
child in this unforgiveable way
is to mock
that which is right and pure in this
temporary
realm.
It is ill-gotten,
loathsome, sick
perversion,
in which a
twisted fulfillment is found.
It is to
gain pleasure through
a young
child’s corruption.
It cannot
be undone.
The
consequences and justice are heavy—the
penalty
clear to all God-fearing ones.
The Pure
One who is Righteousness, Love,
Justice,
Mercy, Grace, Holiness, Peace embodied,
declared,
in human form:
“And
whosoever shall offend one of these little ones
that
believe in me, it is better for him
that a
millstone were hanged about his neck,
and he
were cast into the sea.”
(Mark
9:42, KJV)
Although I
am hung up on these words,
and
tempted to march all over
perpetrators
with them,
Holding
onto unforgiveness,
I can’t
deny the conviction the same
Leader
proclaimed to me, an imperfect
one, just
like the rest:
“Let him
who is without sin among you
be the
first to throw a stone at her.” (John 8:7 ESV)
And my
heart churns inside at the tension this
uncovers:
that
justice is due,
yet judgment is not mine to give.
yet judgment is not mine to give.
